The Man in the Drawing
by TheVideoGamer
Summary: Artist!Misaki finds himself unusually drawn to the man in his sketchbook. What began as nothing more than a doodle he was fond of... becomes quite a lot more. AU, one-shot.


The boy dropped a silver pencil and quickly felt around for a new color. Deciding on violet, he gently fed it to the paper.

His creation was coming into focus. A tall, pale man with a devilish smirk. Hair the color of cumulus clouds and eyes the color of lavender petals, decked out in only the nicest of navy suits, lapels notched and collar crisp. There was no more no passion left in the boy's heart to pour into the paper, and so he finally dropped his tools. Stretching his arms above his head for the first time in a good hour or so, Misaki admired his creation.

The drawing smirked up at him.

Misaki smiled back.

Taking his time, the boy re-sorted his colored pencils and packed them away into his messenger bag. He gave his creation a glance every now and then. For something he'd poured so much love into, it only needed a name to be complete.

"Usagi," he mumbled under his breath. At first he didn't know why the rabbit of all animals was the one that came off the top of his head. Maybe it was the light hair, or the soft eyes hidden in the crafty smile. But he went with it, and that became the man's name.

Gently, Misaki shut his sketchbook and slipped it into his messenger bag. Then he took the train back home.

"Wow, it's a great drawing!" His older brother smiled. "Where'd you get the inspiration to draw something like that?"

Misaki shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe I've seen this man before… but I'm not sure."

Takahiro shook his head. "I haven't. But I can tell you worked very hard on him."

The brown-haired boy smiled and hugged the notebook to his chest without a thought about the action. "Thank you. I did."

The next day, his studying for school was finished early, and Misaki found himself sitting in the library again. "...Maybe I'll…" he reached into his bag and pulled out the sketchbook, laying it flat and opening up to the page that held Usagi. The page to the right of the drawing was naked, beckoning to be covered. "...I'll draw him again."

And so the pencils came out again, and the silver and the violet and the navy blue pencils got shorter and shorter as the boy found himself unable to stop. An hour passed and his hand had a mind of its own, creating more and more illustrations of the man. Soon, Usagi had his own personal identity.

A small-time author. No, wait, a famous one. But he didn't care about the fame, always missing deadlines to write at his own pace. And he smoked cigarettes. Maybe too much, but everyone has a few flaws. There were pictures of him sitting on the couch in his penthouse in Tokyo, leaning on the railing of his balcony for a smoke, and sprawling down notes for his next great Japanese love story. A starving artist, he was - not for money, but for love.

Misaki stuck the end of his pencil in his mouth. "...Love…?" The word flew out of his mind and into the open air, and then suddenly it was on the paper in front of him. He drew a single tear from his subject's eye, shining in the light of a lamp post. And then Misaki was doodling small snowflakes in the air around him.

The lamp post scene felt so fragile. It had a bitter hollowness, like you could poke it and it would cave in. Something structurally important was missing from Usagi's storyline.

But Misaki didn't know what it was. Becoming frustrated, he shut the sketchbook and gathered up his pencils, deciding to call it a day.

"...Oh no," he sighed, reading over a sign in front of the train station.

The large red lettering came into focus as he approached. 'CLOSED.'

Unease dripped into his stomach at the ruin of his daily routine, knowing he'd have to find an alternative way to get home. "I'm not sure I have any money… I'll just call Takahiro. He'll know what to do."

The boy turned on his heel and began to power walk to wherever he could find a place to sit and collect himself. Unfortunately, his mindless speed in such a busy city ran him straight into a passerby.

"O-oh, I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking-"

If Misaki's breath had been knocked out of him a second ago, it was completely gone now. He couldn't even form words. The man looking down at him… He wore a navy blue suit, lapels notched and collar crisp. His hair was the color of cumulus clouds, and his eyes the color of lavender petals.

And for some reason, this man's eyes were as wide as Misaki's.

"...Misaki…?"

"H-how do you know my name?" The boy backed up a few steps, startled and confused. "...Who are you?" If he said Usagi… if he said Usagi...

"Usami Akihiko. Are you alright?"

Misaki nodded slightly, swallowing his spit. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm completely fine." It wasn't the same name. It was similar, but only by coincidence. "I'm sorry again about bumping into you. I'll be going." A wad of disappointment worked its way into his heart, and it began to throb as he turned away from this man. He really did look the same… but, coincidences like this just didn't happen. Especially to people like him.

"Hold on a moment."

Misaki froze. "...Y-yeah?"

"Can I show you something?"

"Um, s-sure, I guess." Misaki wasn't too sure what the man meant by that. He thought that maybe he shouldn't be talking to a stranger like this.

"It'll only be a moment. Here, follow me." Usami led Misaki to a bench and they sat down. From that point, the man pulled something from his suit lapel and handed it to Misaki. It was a small spiral flip notebook with a pencil tucked into the plastic coil.

The boy looked at the plain yellow cover for a second before glancing back up at the stranger. "Open it," the man nodded.

Misaki slowly flipped open to the first page. He was greeted with a pair of big, pencil-drawn eyes - no face to claim them and no color to the image, but they felt familiar. He felt like he'd seen those specific eyes before. The boy flipped to the next page. It was the head and shoulders of a teenage boy, in color this time. His eyes widened slightly as he soaked up the shades of green in the irises, the browns and blacks of the brunette hair, the pinks of the pale skin. The beige of the hoodie… that he was wearing in real life too.

It was a drawing of Misaki.

He looked up in complete shock. "...U-Usagi! Have you ever been called that before?"

The man nodded. "It was a nickname I had in elementary school… but I haven't heard anyone say call me by it since then."

"Are you… an author?"

He nodded. "You haven't heard of me?"

Misaki shook his head.

"Ah, well I won't waste my breath bragging about it," Usagi shook his head slightly, his gaze not breaking from those green eyes. "Are you applying to universities?"

The boy nodded. "I'm trying to get accepted into-"

"Mitsuhashi," the author finished.

There was a silence as they examined the look on the other's face. Both were now wearing powerful masks of bewilderment, but behind that, some kind of… joy was surfacing.

"I can't believe it…" the author muttered. "I-I… I didn't…"

"...I didn't know you were real," Misaki mumbled in awe.

Usagi's mask fell first. He broke into a smile and wrapped his arms around the boy without warning.

Misaki flinched, a spiderweb of cracks sent through his own mask as a chuckle escaped his lips. He could feel the excitement replacing what had been worry in his stomach just minutes ago. "H-hey, uhm, I kinda just met you… do you mind letting go?"

"I can't do that," the man shook his head. "If I let you go, how do I know you won't just disappear?"

Misaki's mask finally clattered to the ground as he smiled. "Because I'm real. The real question is, are you real?"

Usagi pulled away from the hug and looked him in the eyes. "I'll tell you what. Hand me the notebook." Misaki handed it back to him, realizing he was still holding onto it, and the author pulled the pencil from the coil.

"What are you writing?"

"Here." Usagi ripped the page out, crumpled it up, and handed it to the boy. "If you ever need proof of my existence, just use that."

"But what is-"

"Do you need a ride home?" The man interrupted, looking out at the train station. "I know the station's closed."

"Um, well, technically yes…" Misaki nodded, "but I don't want to cause you trouble. You'd have to go completely out of your way just to drive me home."

The man shook his head with a slight chuckle. "That's nonsense. I want to. My car's right over there."

The ride was silent. Misaki spent the entire drive staring at the little wad of paper in his lap, too afraid to open it, and too afraid to look at the man in the driver's seat either. If he thought too hard into the situation… maybe it would end up all being fake, somehow.

Takahiro smiled as he walked in the door. "Hey! You're home early. Was the train on a different schedule or something?"

"Oh, yeah, sort of," Misaki nodded, a bit dazed. "It was completely cancelled, actually. But I was able to get a ride home with… a friend of mine."

"That's good. I hope it wasn't too much trouble to get you back," Takahiro said, setting the dinner plates on the table. "I'm gonna change out of my work clothes before dinner - be right back." The older brother vanished into his bedroom, suddenly leaving Misaki alone with the piece of paper that was burning a hole in his pocket.

The boy collapsed against the front door and took a deep breath. "Please…" he leaned his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. "Let this all still be real when I open my eyes."

Slowly, eyes still shut, he reached into his pocket. Anticipation drew a cold sweat out of his skin.

A small crinkling noise was heard as his fingers contacted the wad of paper. "Thank you…" he sighed, pulling it out and slowly unraveling the uneven folds.

An eleven-digit number was written in clear, neat handwriting on the inside. Below them were the words, "I'd love to see the boy in the drawing again. Call me, Takahashi Misaki."

When a brand new smile broke out on the boy's face, he closed his fist around the paper and held it to his chest. "I have to be mistaken," he whispered under his breath, "but… this feeling in my heart… is it… it can't possibly be...?"

He pulled his sketchbook from his messenger back and sat down on the couch with a fresh pencil. Without another word, he flipped to the page of Usagi crying under the lamp post. The hollow, empty, dreadful scene. And he began to draw someone else standing next to the man. Shorter, younger, with long brunette hair. Himself.

Misaki erased the man's arms - the way he was crossing them felt cold and out of character. It was far too cynical, even for the devilish author. He redrew the man's arms to hug the boy. Misaki's cheeks took on a light pink hue as he drew himself hugging the man back.

The boy scoffed slightly as he set down his pencil, admiring his finished work.

"...We're real, Usagi. You're _real_."


End file.
